The Other Side of Magik

Compendium of the Laws of Magik and Reasoning

The Base Laws

Causality Causes and their effects

Proximity Nearness in time, space, and order

Paradox Contradictions of reality

Probability The likelihood of things

The Higher Laws

The Yggdrasil Codes Earth harmony

The Artifice Mechana Interaction of all devices and constructs

Equilibrium of Calculus Higher mathematics and harmonics

Zodiacal Harmonies Astronomy and astrology

The Roman Canticles Ecclesiastical and religious occultism

The Gnostic Laws Self, belief, and cant

The Osirian Laws Parameters of life and death

Prologue

Once —

— long ago, in the frozen, far-off northern lands of Outer Thule, a dragon told the most amazing secret to a magician. They were playing cards at the time, and the dragon was losing. Dragons and mages have little use for gold and the like; the coin and purpose of their game was information. And the mage was winning, not because he used glamours and conjurations of magikal mien to aid him, but because he was a good player of the cards and the dragon wasn't. Besides, the skeins of magik unravel in the presence of dragon-folk. Spells and such can take on unusual aspects around them, usually with awful consequences. That’s why dragons inhabit the cold, northern wastes and men don’t — there are no conflicts of interests.

As forfeit for losing, the secret was divulged, thus — the world that men knew and were familiar with was the mirror-image of another. And in that other reality, some things were very different indeed. For one thing, the science of magik did not work, and strange new ideas and forces shaped that world. Oh, the heavens were still the same, the stars occupied their usual places and the Moon still graced the skies, but this other world was opposite in all things, and mechanical and scientific contraptions ruled the day; there was no knowledge of the wonders and mysteries of the natural power of magik. On that world, man never knew what had been lost — or never gained.

Until — until someone found a way to cross over into it — to open up a doorway between them. A doorway that upset the order of things. Such was the rarity of the disclosure, and so profound the tale, that the mage recorded everything in the runes of his craft and sent what he had learned to the great colleges of magelore for their examination. And for many years great thinkers and magicians wrestled with the tale, seeking to find the moment of access. For then, once knowing the time and place, a formula of power — spell, if you will — could be crafted to delve into this mirror world. The lore and legend of the craft of magik was sifted for clues; history was searched and dissected for any evidence of something out of place; and slowly, very slowly, over many generations, the little pieces began to add up. There were stories of people who didn’t belong. Strangers who would appear in the midst of a battle, or at the height of a storm when the lightning was flashing. All of them found near ley-lines or barrows or henges; places of mystery and power. And these strange ones all shared the same disturbing ability — they were unaffected by magik. Not like dragon-folk were unaffected, but totally indifferent to it! They were impervious to the direct application of constructed magik. More! The structured symbolisms of mathematics, harmonics, philosophical paradigms and mental imperatives that are the building blocks of the entire range of thaumaturgical disciplines that make up the Arts Arcana — known as Magik in the common tongue — would fall apart in the presence of these strange ones! Such power! To be able to nullify magik! Nullify — null. Ahhh. The last clue fell into place. Null.

Legend said there had once been a book so dire and fell that it had been proscribed and damned for all time. A book so dangerous that none could be trusted with its secrets. The Book of Null. Written during the great Druid convocation at Long Meg, in the days when the power of Rome held the land. The doorway, ancient texts reported, to another world.

From one end of the Angle Isles to the other, the search ran its course. From the Pictish highlands to the Cymric valleys, across the lowlands of Angland and down to the brooding cliffs of Tintagel, throughout the mist-encased realm of Erin’s Isle mages sought the book. Dark vaults, in remote colleges and abbeys and seminaries, were searched; the great Druidic establishments and centres of learning scoured their libraries and crypts, and ancient rune-stones were cleaned and examined. And it was found. Encased in a sealed leaden box and buried with others of its kind at the holy centre of learning at Newgrange, in Erin’s Isle. Now, with the book as a guide, spells could be created that would follow the threads of history back into the past; threads that could be wound back to the moment when the doorway was opened. And at the centre of that moment, where the streams of probabilities met, was — William of Normandy, claimant to the throne of Edward the Confessor.

And in 1066 he set sail to claim what was his.

The Year 1066

Harold, son of Godwin, Eorl of Wessex, true claimant to the throne of Edward, was a man of renown and courage. Young, brave, well-studied in the arts of life and war, he faced such as no man in Angland had ever faced before. To the north, his venal and vicious brother Tostig had invited the Viking king Hardrada to join with him to unseat Harold and share the spoils of the Isle. Across the water in Normandy, William readied his long-boats and his barons to invade the southern shore, certain that Harold’s citizen militia would prevail not against his seasoned and professional army. Harold’s seers and mages knew the reality of the situation. Dire magik would need be employed if their king was to triumph. And so it came to pass, that a grimoire of terrible power was used. The Book of Null. This was a secret and hidden book. It was a book of awful consequence; and that which it called forth brought doubt and confusion to the Norman mages.

The currents of probability began to swirl and roil; and in the mirror-Earth history began to change.

September 25, 1066

Harald Hardrada, son of Haakon, grandson of Halfdan the Black, was doomed. His shamans and seers had been blind to Harold’s movements, and now, in the cold mist of morning, his great skills and courage were as nothing with his enemy on the high ground and a river at his back. Swords and battleaxes were drawn; shields bought up. Hard eyes stared at death from beneath horned battle-helms. But Harold, impervious now to the arts and guiles of magik, caused Harald, son of Haakon, to kneel before him in homage. It is known that Harold offered his hand in friendship.

Across the tenuous divide that separated realities, another Harold, ghostly and ephemeral, looked down in triumph on the fallen body of his enemy.

September 28, 1066

Word came that William had landed on the southern shore at Hastings and was deploying his army. With a speed of decision that was breathtaking, Harold led both Saxon and Viking forces south. Destiny loomed before them.

The ghostly Harold, firming now in probability, disbanded his army and, gathering around him his loyal bodyguard, sped south to confront the usurper.

October 14, 1066

There was great doubt in the camp of William. A silence had fallen on the land; a silence so profound that his best mages could not penetrate it. Harold was elusive. No word of his whereabouts came to William’s ear. Then, at seven-of-the-clock in the morning, William, Duke of Normandy gazed up from the beach of Hastings where his army was camped in mailed array, and saw his Saxon foes appeared as if by magik through the mist; and behind them came a vast hoard of Viking warriors, resplendent with shield and sword and axe, each one beating his weapon to his shield so that a great drumming resounded across the sands, like the heartbeat of an angry world. The glint of light on double-axe and greatsword reflected in William’s eyes and hid the fear within. Without a word, Harold moved towards him, and by ten-of-the-clock, William knelt at Harold’s feet, his aspirations, like the blood of his followers, leaching away into the sands of Angland.

Harold’s new levy of citizen militia was no match for the disciplined Norsemen, and soon the last of the Wessex lords lay dead, an arrow through the eye his final epitaph. The iron fist of William began its relentless grip on his new kingdom.

Yuletide 1066

With pledge and promise the leaders of all the great clans of the Angle Isles assembled in Winchester and offered Harold kingship over the nation of Angland. From their secret places came those who had kept the ways and gods of old; Celt and Pict and Norse and Saxon all celebrated the new order. And the laws of nature and earth, of fire and stone, of water and sky, of life and death — of magik — were celebrated and honoured across the length and breadth of Angland.

In the mirror world, the Second Earth of the dragon’s tale, a newly-conquered England firmed in reality — and history there began a different path.

Today

The Book of Null had been hidden for centuries. Banned and proscribed, it had been forgotten in the mists of time. Then, someone found it again — and used it. Far away, beneath the icy wastes of the North, a scribe of the dragon-folk gazed into a basalt mirror, saw the ripples there that spoke of the disruption of space-time itself and knew exactly what had happened.

Good grief, it said to itself, it’s happening again!

ANGLAND

In the North-east of the country of Angland is the city of York. Outside its ancient wall and not far from the old, rambling town protected by it, stands a row of stately houses. Each one is separate from its neighbour, each one is constructed from grey stone, and all are of two stories. Leadlight windows endow them and manicured gardens decorate them. Stone arches mark their entries and gravel driveways lead from the road to their porticos and doors. Many of the houses have servant’s quarters and all of them have a coach-house.

Theolonia Crabbe owned one of those great houses of York. Owned it and resided in it all alone. She was a tall woman of gaunt eminence. Her clothes were invariably the corporate fashions of white blouse, grey mid-calf skirt and grey jacket, her hair was grey and pulled back in a tight bun and her house was grey. In high circles, behind her back, she was known as the Grey Lady Crabbe. But she was also a woman of prestige and power, and for sixty-three years that power and prestige were her constant companions and the tools of her trade. And Theolonia Crabbe had the highest trade of all. Theolonia Crabbe was a wizard.

Night-time rain hammered against the lead-light windows and filled the house with a soft drumming sound. Inside, gaslights hissed in their brackets and their light struggled to hold back the darkness. Wherever the light did touch, it showed the cold austerity of soul-less wealth. The panelled walls and polished floors, the tiles of exquisite design and paintings of sombre mien, the carpets and silverware, all of them lacked the lustre that love and happiness bring to cherished things. As an anechoic room absorbs sound, so too this house sucked up human warmth, leaving behind a travesty of a home.

Theolonia had a job to do. She didn’t particularly want to do it, in fact, she loathed what was going to happen, yet she knew it must be done. Along the landing, midway between the bedroom doors, was a narrow door with a round brass handle and solid hinges. It was a different door to the others in the house. This door led to the attic. Against the wall next to the door was a small half-round plant stand that sported a large candle-holder and candle, and a box of lucifers. With a sureness her calming spell had induced, Theolonia removed one of the lucifers, struck it against the scratch plate on the base of the candle-holder, and lit the candlewick. A light brighter than the gas lamps threw back the jumping shadows and anyone with half an ounce of magikal ability would have recognised the candle for what it was, a warded flame, extinguishable only by the one who lit it. The doorknob turned smoothly at her hand and the door opened outwards on well-oiled hinges. Polished wooden stairs climbed steeply upwards into the night. Her heels boomed solidly as she followed the candle’s light. Banisters guided her upwards and then she stood at one end of a narrow walkway between the rafters and trusses of the high-pitched roof. The beat of rain on the slate was louder here and the gurgle of water in the gutters was melody to the rain. On either side of the walkway the paraphernalia of generations was piled up like so many unwanted memories and the dust of ages lay thick and silent around. The end of the walkway was occupied. Barely visible in the shadows, a tall oval mirror stood there in its frame, shrouded and silent like a headless man. Before it a small stool stood as if kneeling in homage. Silently Theolonia made her way the length of the attic and, brushing her long skirt to one side, sat down. Her free hand reached out for the shroud —

— long ago, when she was a child, Theolonia had been told half of a truth; she had a twin! A brother. And he had died at birth. That was the half-truth. Long years later, when she was firmly ensconced in her Magehood and Wizardship, the other half of the truth came out of its hidden place and her dreams began. In them a soft voice called in loving terms, claiming kinship, asking for peace; a small voice, as that of a child, asking for a home, shelter — protection. A voice asking to come in — just for once — only for a moment. In her dream state she had acceded, a phantom request in un-warded sleep agreed to by an unconscious mind. Yes. Come In. Then the horror; then the truth — the full truth. It was him! The dead one! Her other self! HER BROTHER! — his mind fleeing, all those long years ago, within minutes of his birth — leaping to the darkest corners of her mind as the chirurgeon recognised him for the evil creature that he was and untied the umbilical cord to bleed him to death — hidden, his essence of a mind burrowing its way into her infant sub-conscious, alone and secret — waiting — a hidden voyeur, following her progress to the peak of her powers. Seeking a way to reclaim that so cruelly taken from him — LIFE! Yearning across the years for the feel of flesh and blood — his own flesh and blood! HIS OWN BODY!

Once he had been allowed in, he could not be removed. She was his sister, they were blood — were-blood! Her powers could not dislodge him, he was too powerful. And in that power, Theolonia recognized her brother for what he truly was — a mandrake. Mandrake! Natural wizards they were, of fierce and powerful magikal ability that gain their power by feeding on the sins and pain of the corrupt. Of all the creatures that make up the pantheon of those gifted with the Talent, from the greatest wizard down to the lowly apprentice mage, the mandrake commands the most awe and fear. They are rare, and in the underworld of corrupt magik, the arrival of such a one is heralded by portents and omens. Acolytes dare to dream of the day such a great one will lead them to destroy the pillars of civilized magik and return to them the power and conquest of ancient days. The pages of history are littered with the ruins of the mad ambitions of mandrakes.

Her brother could not take over her mind, she was too powerful; and she could not remove him, he was too deeply embedded in her mind. Theolonia could not seek help from her peers because a mandrake must be put to death; and that meant her own life would be forfeit. Madness beckoned, so a safety valve was needed. Theolonia would block all access to her thoughts, but she would provide a doorway between their minds; one where she and Horatio could speak to each other. A doorway, via the mirror, where her brother could look out on the world. Her sibling needed knowledge — needed answers. Theolonia would help him. She would let him take over her body — not often — just once in a while, so he could delve into her realm and find what he needed to gain a body. Those times she stayed hidden within her own mind, alone and reclusive. They became part of her life and her colleagues grew used to Theolonia’s eccentric moments and odd little ways. A society more adept at the psychiatric doctrines may have recognised severe personality disorder and not a little paranoia, but in twenty-first century Angland, those practices were in their infancy.

Theolonia Crabbe desperately needed to be rid of her brother; at any price. Months of research and searching proved fruitless as to a solution. Then, one day, almost by accident, she found a book that showed her exactly what was needed. Her brother needed a receptacle for his mind, for what passed as his soul. He needed a body — a living body. But it had to be a very special body. A body, the book suggested, that was impervious to magik. A body not of this world. Thanks to the book, Theolonia had discovered how to get one, and where to get it from. And now she had a plan — a very, very devious plan.